


picking the scabs on sunburns

by meios



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Lowercase, M/M, Mentioned Character Death, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:32:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7395079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meios/pseuds/meios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <a href="http://www.asofterworld.com/index.php?id=1100/">"sleeping with your friends / is not a bad way / to get rid of them."
(if there are better ways, i bet they involve clothing.)</a>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	picking the scabs on sunburns

this is how it works, how it always works:  
  
his mouth on them, whoever they are, someone important enough to be in his bed and call themselves his friend, and their moans, friction hot enough to bring climax, pushing their hand away if they reach out to touch him. they sprawl in the center of his bed, pillow still under their ass or constricted around thick, corded arms, and they will be gone when he comes in to change the sheets the next morning.  
  
it is routine. they promise to call and never do.  
  
he meets more ghosts by fucking them, honestly. he shoves the soiled bedclothes down the laundry chute, knows that there will be clean ones put onto the mattress within an hour, at least.  
  
tony is comfortable with losing his friends so long as he fucks them before they leave. steve has left numerous times, but always come back. rhodey... more, but then he never came back. rumiko would have come back.  
  
he destroys something beautiful, whatever’s in arm’s reach, and watches the television spark and crackle when the remote meets the screen, crashing through. he swears, for he is alone in this giant place, and FRIDAY is asking him what the hell his problem is.  
  
he finds a pair of shoes and leaves.  
  
when he returns, he’s got smoke on his tongue, a bellyful of deli meat. he feels worse, if anything, seeing ghosts in every corner, hearing words that have been said to him before, muffled over comms or mouths.  
  
his phone buzzes in his pocket, and it’s another thing that’s been taken away from him. it shatters in his hand.  
  
he destroys everything he touches.  
  
he touches himself.


End file.
